Please Hang Up and Dial Your Operator
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: When she was ten, she decided that God didn't exist. And if he did, then he was too much of an asshole to rely on. [HanaBennet]


_**Please Hang Up and Dial Your Operator**_

When she was ten, she decided that God didn't exist.

And if he did, then he was too much of an asshole to rely on.

Following that assumption, and taking under consideration the fact that man was supposedly made in his image…

Well, it sure as hell explained a lot of things.

That was seventeen years ago – she's grown a bit since then.

But her decision stands.

And now, standing at the edge of the abyss –

She doesn't plan on changing her mind.

_**Three Days Ago, Somewhere Between Texas and New York**_

The twilight enwraps her, cold and desolate – not harshly so, but neutrally chilly, like a blanket over a slowly cooling corpse.

Fitting.

The endless stream of ones and zeroes is the only warmth available to her. It's the only thing keeping her company.

She doesn't _need _anything else. Doesn't need any_one_. Never has. Never will.

At least, that's what she keeps telling herself. The cold-comfort mantra. The only answer that's foolproof.

The _truth_.

That's the way it's always been – and nothing has changed.

She walks away, leaving the playground behind her. There couldn't have been a more appropriate meeting place, considering the parties involved.

In a bout of fruitless, aggravated contemplation, she wonders whether Sprague and Parkman even_ have_ minds of their own, instead of conveniently empty shells nicely and obediently waiting for the nearest influence to invade and take charge.

Though with Bennet, she can't exactly claim to have been any wiser.

She believed in him once.

_Trusted_ him.

And she didn't put a bullet through his head now, either.

Maybe she should have. It was tempting for a second – hypothetically, at least. And holding a gun to him felt pretty good – being the one calling the shots, or half-convincingly pretending to – but she wasn't fooling anyone, not even herself.

The greater good always went before her personal feelings.

So she's accepted his mission.

_Again. _

Take down the Company's satellite system. Sure, why not?

Realism hasn't been playing a big part in her life lately. No reason it should start now.

And she doesn't mind going out with a bang. She knows what needs to be done.

It doesn't mean she has to _like_ it.

Time isn't on her side – few things are - but she still has unfinished business. And she doesn't believe in loose ends.

So she doesn't leave town just yet.

A few hours later, she's standing in front of the shabby motel. Paint is peeling off the walls and pale neon letter flicker in an unimpressive show of shoddy electricity – it only barely passes for a sad relic of American noir. Not that she'd know how the _real_ thing would look like, but she can tell a fake when she sees one. It's just trying too hard.

She tracks a cell phone signal. Quickly finds the right room.

The urge to kick the door down or to shoot the lock arises – there's something much more _natural_ about that approach - but she manages to suppress it, and settles for knocking.

She hopes she isn't _interrupting_ anything. You never know what the three musketeers – and that's the most charitable title she can find for this little group - could be up to.

But he's alone when he opens the door. Missing his nuclear and telepathic backup, as well as his jacket and tie, and looking… tired.

She realizes she's never seen him _look_ tired.

But she has little sympathy to spare, especially for him.

He steps away from the door, letting her in and closing the door behind them.

The television is turned on, black and white and no sound, only electronic ambience.

Works for her.

They lock gazes – hers formed in blazing steel, trying to burn through him, get a _reaction_ - his built on the foundations of his usual calm composure, but with a hint of something she can't decipher –

Well, that's nothing new.

There is much to say, but _saying _it would be redundant, and so nothing is said.

She's always felt more comfortable speaking in actions, and now is no different – she grabs him by the collar of his shirt, spinning and pushing him up against the wall. He makes no sound at the contact, no move to counter or fight her off. Only observes the proceedings with the same intent, everlasting patience, not showing a trace of concern.

She could do anything to him now.

_Hurt_ him – make him feel a _fracture_ of the betrayal that she felt –

She could do anything at all – and he wouldn't stop her.

She hasn't forgiven him.

Doesn't intend to.

She doesn't let go of his shirt, tugging it towards her as she crashes their mouths together in something far too hungry and uncivilized to be called a kiss.

This is her last chance, and she won't let it slip away.

_**Last Year, Near the Edge of the World**_

_She's not in a good mood._

_Every muscle, every nerve - every fiber that shapes her existence is screaming in high-pitched silence, pulling and tearing and not allowing a split second of peace - every sensation heightened and dulled simultaneously, a paradoxical contrast intent on driving her insane – and she can feel her consciousness beginning to freeze over – what a fitting end to this little training session _that_ would make. _

_He just _stands_ there, watching with an impassive air, the remains of the glasses in his hand - her recent attack and the subsequent nosebleed having no apparent effect on his psyche. _

_If he even _has_ one. _

_As far as she knows, he might as well be machine. His reactions are more fitting of one._

_Unfortunately, there is a glaring flaw in that logic. _

_If he really was a machine, then she might have stood a chance of actually _understanding_ him._

_Her anger is fading, finding no outlet or fuel to sustain itself - it's too goddamn _cold_ for it to survive – and she has no energy left to fight him. _

_"Feeling better?" he asks neutrally, lips drawing into a wry half-smile._

Asshole.

_The snowstorm whistles viciously around them, oblivious of their existence – her face has gone numb from the relentless assault of what this place passes for _air_ – somebody could peel her skin off and she wouldn't notice._

_So in a way - yes, she _is_ feeling better._

_There's an advantage to being in the middle of a ferocious weather tantrum, because when it gets too shrill, too loud –_

_The world grows silent. _

_There's a childish sense of wonder reserved for snow – she was sure she'd lost it by now, had it completely wiped out throughout her extensive Alaskan adventures – but it suddenly resurfaces, and she finds herself actually _seeing_ the surroundings for the first time in a while. _

_Blinding white, like a blank page that should never be written on. _

_He's still watching her with that mildly amused expression, patiently awaiting her response. Aesthetic value aside, his lack of mobility makes him look like an oddly colored ice sculpture. _

_This is far from being a romantic moment. The fact that she'd just _vomited _a massive cloud of digital data into the sky can't be helping, and they both resemble stuffed bears right now - but something about it is _special

_She doesn't think – forgets _how_ – just takes a step forward – a footprint drowns in the snow; the silence lingers on - and presses her mouth to his. _

_He stays immobile. Not returning it, not pushing her back - _

_She's supposed to _feel_ something, but it's just cold. _

_There's a reason you shouldn't lick ice, no matter how curious you are about the taste._

_She moves away. _

_She doesn't _want_ to look at him, but it's better than running. She's not a _coward

_So she braces herself and meets his gaze. It's appraising, not judgmental - closer to scientific. After a while, he redirects it to an unknown location; it could be just her imagination, but she thinks she can see miniature cracks form through his composed exterior. _

_But when he speaks, it's clean and simple. Allows no argument._

_"We can't do this."_

_No reasons or explanations given. They're all obvious enough. _

_She wasn't expecting anything different._

_Afterwards, the incident is discarded as if it's never taken place._

_She forces herself to forget about it, holding on to a comforting thought -_

_At least she'd gotten the satisfaction of breaking his glasses._

---

She remembers herself back then – so young, so naïve, so convinced that he held all the answers.

She was a _child_.

But now she's all grown up.

Thanks to him.

He knows what she wants, and subtlety has never been one of her strong suits, anyway.

She presses herself against him, their mouths still trapped together, hot breath colliding with room-temperature. She meets no hesitation, no reluctance, no passive resistance.

There are a hundred reasons why they shouldn't be doing this – the most blatant one being the ring on his finger. It would've deterred her before, but not now.

He _owes _her, and she _deserves_ this, and that's all there is to it.

But she doesn't want her own personal crash test dummy.

She wants _him_.

He needs a wake-up call so she provides one - biting down on his lower lip – _hard_ – gets a sharp hiss in return – draws back to witness a distinctly _annoyed_ expression.

She smirks at him.

At least he's _alive_ now.

Though she's not sure _she_ is.

It's staredown time – not an uncommon practice between them – if this was the animal kingdom, they'd be slowly circling each other, two entirely different predators conducting a shrewd mutual appraisal, but they keep entirely still, the few inches separating them charged with electricity she can practically _taste_.

She's certain she's going to win this round for one simple reason -

He's conflicted. She's anything _but_.

He's the one to make the first move, drawing her into a kiss of his own – a measured, gradual one – she could probably find an algorithm for if she had the time and energy.

But when she joins the effort it becomes unhinged, edging on brutality – slipping out of and _beyond_ control.

Kissing is overrated. They're not a pair of love-struck, sloppy teenagers on a first date. She pulls at his shirt abruptly, tearing the top two buttons off. He gives a bemused brow raise in return – takes the hint, though, unbuttoning the rest on his own – too slowly for her taste, but the shirt is ruined anyway, so that part of her mission is accomplished.

She slides her mouth over his skin, tasting and probing, seeking a pressure point, a _response_ - feels his chest moving to an even, calm rhythm – a rhythm she fully intends to disrupt by any means necessary.

The voice of experience compels her to make this quick and messy – hit-and-run is a tradition to her by now – but she doesn't want it to be _easy_.

Easy would mean nothing at all.

Not that _easy_ is even a remote possibility when it comes to them – the very _thought_ is ridiculous.

She pushes herself away from him, suddenly in need of separation, of cold air.

The air isn't nearly cold enough – the separation virtual at best.

He stays with his back against the wall, perpetually appraising her through those damn _glasses_.

She steps forward, snatches them off him -

His gaze doesn't budge. Neither does he.

She brushes her thumb over the frame, briefly wondering which regeneration of the glasses this is. She'd been responsible for three, at least.

He's only got his teaching methods to blame for _that_.

She places them on the nightstand. It's symbolic in some way, she's sure, but can't really bring herself to give a damn.

They follow through an unspoken agreement - she removes her clothes without any help from him, and he does the same.

She's faster to the finish line, though, so she watches him with her arms folded – attempting to give him a taste of his own voyeuristic medicine - but if he's at all apprehensive about being monitored, he does a good job projecting nothing but absolute indifference.

Once he's done, she makes an objective appraisal - far from perfect, but impressive enough for his age.

She pushes him down on the bed, climbs on top of him, her knees digging into his waist.

They don't need foreplay – don't have time for games.

This is as simple as it gets.

He'd used her, and now she's using him.

She rides him - eyes closed, breathing in rough pants, heart racing and possibly breaking state laws - the jarring squeak of the mattress accompanies the motion, lacking in anything resembling a melody.

It's not _his_ rhythm – his would've been slower, more calculated and deliberate – and she doesn't care.

Her death. Her rules.

And her rules, right now – are _no_ rules.

She focuses on the ragged sensations running inside out, on the anger still igniting sizzling sparks that go from subconscious to nerves to _skin_ - she shouldn't be thinking, but thoughts still find their way in – an extensive list of what they _owe_ each other - scores that'll never be settled, for better or worse.

He made her into what she _is_, gave her a purpose - then left her to fend for herself, discarded like used-up _toy_.

And what does that make _him_?

Loving husband, exemplary representative of suburbia, family man – paper salesman, ruthless hunter - and backstabbing _bastard_. How he could so easily _live_ that neatly split life of his she can't even begin to understand.

She's only ever had the one.

It's ironic, but her desire for revenge is what _freed _him, cutting off his illustrious career as a good dog blindly following orders.

It's not freedom that he asked for – but any freedom is better than none.

And she doesn't particularly care what his thoughts on the subject are.

They're both far from innocent.

She's _thinking_ too much. She needs to get lost in the physical realm, drown everything else out.

All the men she's been with, whether out of necessity or the need for instant gratification – seemed to be happy expressing their _deep_ affection through groping and providing a soundtrack composed of various combinations of gasping and grunting and _less_ pleasant things – but _he _doesn't make a sound outside the basic necessity of breathing - barely even _touches_ her. Burning frustration builds up - she leans forward, presses her fingers into his chest – hopes she's leaving a mark, hopes it _hurts_ – she can hear him trapping his breath, and that's good enough for her.

This isn't 'making love' – she's_ never_ made love – the whole concept escapes her; makes her think of love labs and workshops and factories. This is just cold hard fucking.

But it's not _meaningless_, not with him.

He promised her that he'd change her life.

And while lies, conspiracies and broken promises turned out to be a specialty of his, that's one word he'd undisputedly kept.

She's not sure whether she should be grateful for that - her_ life_ is nothing but a loose collection of cracked, disjointed moments that barely mix together into a coherent whole – moments that are about to run out.

She opens her eyes -

As simple as all of this seemed to be just moments ago, she isn't sure what the drive behind it is anymore - revenge, a claim of dept, simple satisfaction of a primal need – could be something else altogether.

It makes no difference.

Right now, it's all about the moment – his hands on her hips, a steadying anchor to keep her from slipping away; his mouth - lips parted slightly, decorated with sweat - catching air in shallow doses. She directs a look straight into his eyes, meets a stormy blue haze that reminds her of snowstorms - and she goes _faster_ – trying in smoldering desperation to tear away at his defenses, at the endless walls - and get somewhere deeper - somewhere she can actually _feel_ him.

She's still looking for some hidden truth, the magical solution to an unknown mystery – but he's not the puppet master, not the man behind the curtain - just a cog in a machine – one that's gotten loose and gone rogue and – it's too hot and she can't be bothered to drag that metaphor any further – he gives a muffled groan and her senses go on overdrive - perception slipping – she's suddenly overwhelmed by a thousand stray transmissions that she forgets to block out – God, a meltdown is the _last_ thing she needs right now –

And then total silence – a sensory blackout.

She can't even hear the sound she makes – overrun by blissful emptiness.

She lies on top of him, sharing warmth and stillness and catching breath.

His fingers brush over the back of her neck - _there_ – it sends a burning shiver across her back. Other than being a starkly physical reminder of her mission, she figures this is as close as she'll ever get to an apology.

She doesn't particularly care for one. Words are vehicles to lies and watered-down truths at best, and it's not like you can use an apology to take down a satellite, or carry it to your grave.

The moment has outstayed its welcome, but she doesn't want to move. Not _yet_.

A stupid thought lands on a distant spot of her consciousness, like a fly too elusive to be swatted away.

Maybe, some other time, some other place –

It could have been _more_.

But that's just fairly-tale thinking.

And if this is the best knight in shining armor the universe has to offer…

The universe could use a shrink.

Then again, her optimistic side silently reminds her that it can be much, much worse.

After everything she's been through - she should be smarter now, should _know_ better -

Bit she still trusts him.

She trusts him because she has no better alternative, no other answer -

She trusts him because she _chooses _to.

And possibly because she's an idiot.

She goes back and treads over the jumble of potential reasons and motivations for this… _encounter_.

But maybe it's much simpler.

Something to remember her by.

Even if it's not a fond memory, but another shameful little secret to add to his neatly polished black box. An errant thought resurfacing at the wrong moment when he goes back to his wife.

Even if it's only _that_ - it's still a lasting impression.

She doesn't want to be forgotten.

She gets up, trying hard not to look at him as she gathers her clothes. She can take a shower later, doesn't want to linger here any longer. Quickly gets dressed.

He sits up on the edge of the bed, pulls his pants back on. He stays there, hands on his knees, posture business-like – but the quiet sigh he releases contrasts with it. She thinks she recognizes the emotion behind it - dormant guilt.

They exchange glances for the last time. Trying to decode the meaning behind his look is like collecting clues in a murder mystery.

She doesn't feel like playing Nancy Drew, but when he gives her a final nod, she thinks she sees reassurance in it. The absolute, unwavering kind that seems to come so naturally to him.

She could be wrong, but she _wants_ to be right.

All grown up now – and she still needs him to believe in her.

It's the least he can do, if he's sending her on a suicide mission.

She knows that she isn't coming back. She knows that _he_ knows.

It doesn't matter.

Hers is not to question why, hers is but to do or die.

And if she's lucky – both.

She feels his gaze linger on her as she leaves. A steady, persistent prickle on the back of her neck.

No apologies, no good luck wishes – no goodbyes.

Good little soldiers don't get goodbyes.

They don't need them.

She drives away, and lets the night swallow her whole.

_**Now, at the End of Everything**_

God doesn't exist.

There is no heaven, no hell – nothing but an endless vacuum, forever-stretching black space –

And it's better that way.

Because if she had met God - she would have kicked him in the face.

And she doubts it would've put her in his good graces.

But the vacuum feels good, _free_ – feels almost…

Like home.

These are the last moments. She knows because she can't feel the pain anymore, and because, well - because _common sense_ has a say in the matter.

Information is streaming through her in vicious tides, battling her own consciousness for dominance – a fight she stands no chance of winning - it's the best and worst humanity has to offer – conversation between loved ones, idle chats, vast conspiracies and petty insults – she hears a million songs played simultaneously – from classic rock to jazz to techno to a naïve, amateurish tune that was probably composed in someone's messy garage – an impossible blend that clashes and screeches and somehow _works_.

Amidst the mind-splitting remix, she catches something that doesn't belong –

It's a song her mother used to sing to her when she was little.

A song about a little girl in a red dress who stood and asked _–_

Why?

And all the volcanoes and all the storms, all the lions and all the tigers, and all the soldiers and all the cannons stood still –

And couldn't find an answer.

For a fleeting moment, she wants to believe in the afterlife.

But all she feels is the signals closing in, forming an endless circle around her - moving in for the kill.

She has no regrets.

And the only _why_ she wants to have on her mind when she's dying is –

Why does the zebra wear pyjamas?

Maybe that's a little immature, but luckily, there is no one to lecture her about maturity here.

For a moment of perfect disconnect - she can feel everything –

And she _is_ everything.

She could contact anyone – _everyone_, if she wanted.

This is the time for last words – in a blind haze, she searches for something that would wrap all her thoughts, her emotions in a neat, perfect shell.

Something meaningful. Something important.

Something complete.

But words, it turns out, aren't any easier when you're dying.

So she only sends one message.

**It's done.**

And everything unravels, cuts off - vanishes.

Only one feeling is left.

And then none.


End file.
